


Praying for Rain

by cakepopsforeveryone



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, Humor, I don't know what it says about me that this is my first published work on AO3, I guess this is explicit, I mean it's technically not NSFW, Other, Tumblr Prompt, brollylock, but I am not ashamed, but it kinda feels dirty, feel free to try this at home, if you think your umbrella might be sentient, otherwise it will probably not work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4137663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakepopsforeveryone/pseuds/cakepopsforeveryone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's umbrella longs for something more adventurous. Sherlock provides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Praying for Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [May_Shepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/gifts), [Giveusakiss4132](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giveusakiss4132/gifts).



> [Tumblr started it.](http://cakepopsforeveryone.tumblr.com/post/121443958532/elizabeth-twist-as-a-result-of-this-little)
> 
> Super huge thanks to [iwantthatcoat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat), [awkwardtiming](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardTiming), and [sanguisuga](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguisuga) for beta reading on a dime!

Sheltering Mycroft was fine. It was what he had always done, after all. Mycroft was always attentive, extending the runner up his shaft gently, holding his handle softly in fastidious hands. When the rain had passed, he would shake the remaining drops delicately from the curve of the canopy before fastening the clasp. Mycroft brushed off mud spatters when they dried and even polished his handle. If he did it more dutifully than enthusiastically, he couldn't be blamed. The umbrella and Mycroft had been together for a very long time.

Mycroft carried him everywhere, depended on him, clearly. Gripping the umbrella was Mycroft's way to provide himself with security as he impersonated an archvillain or waited on the queen. Yet Mycroft only brought him out in the lightest of rains, mists, and fogs. When the weather threatened to change, when the sky rumbled ominously, when the rain began to fall harder or the wind to pick up, Mycroft always took shelter in his cell of an office or his sleek black car. The umbrella's existence was comfortable, if predictable.

And if he sometimes yearned for rough handling, for a firmer grip, for the thrill of being blown inside out during a windy rainstorm-- well. He could have it much worse. He saw umbrellas abandoned in alleyways, missing ribs, the stretchers tangled. Others, he noticed in passing, were dirty or scuffed. Unkempt. Uncared for. 

Most umbrellas couldn't boast of half as much life as he had. They languished at home, forgotten in closet corners. They came out only when the weather was truly threatening. By comparison, a calm existence at the side of a meticulous man was satisfactory. Pleasant, even.

But then. . . then there was Sherlock.

It began with a brush of fitted shirt, a glimpse of curl; a hint that Mycroft's brother was intriguingly, sensually different from Mycroft. He began both to hope and to fear visits to Baker Street. Sometimes, Sherlock's scent would linger in the air. Other times, Sherlock himself would come into view, all manic energy and straining buttons, his large hands promising sensual pleasure. The umbrella knew that Mycroft cherished him in his own way. Mycroft would never neglect him, never forsake him. And yet he wondered.

And the deductions! Oh god, that voice, deep velvet as it revealed secrets and truths. If only those piercing eyes would deduce _him_. If Sherlock could see his desire, would he feel the same? Would his steely eyes soften with arousal, his perfect mouth gasp to think of the possibilities? Would he take the umbrella out, out into the storm?

In time, the umbrella was consumed with thoughts of Sherlock. Night after night, perched atop his stand in Mycroft's spotless entrance hallway, he imagined scenarios. In one, Mycroft left him behind in Baker Street. Sherlock took him out in the rain, discovered his usefulness, and refused to part from him thereafter. In another, Sherlock actually ripped him from Mycroft's grip, forcing his brother to relinquish the umbrella he had come to covet. 

In his most shocking fantasies, the umbrella imagined himself fully ruined by Sherlock's careless use; fallen in an alley, covered in mud and blood, ribs pulled out of the canopy, stretchers bent at unnatural angles and scratching his handle. Although he always regretted the feeling of shame that followed, he found himself opening more than once as he pictured such a scene.

The day It happened started out unremarkably. The sky was overcast, and Mycroft murmured as he prepared to leave his flat that "the umbrella might see some use today." He took the umbrella to the office-- always the office, my god! Is there nothing else in life?-- where he spent a dull few hours on the coat rack, Mycroft typing and conducting meetings. Before Sherlock, such days had seemed like the natural course of things. Lately, though, he found himself resenting the sameness. Sherlock's protests of boredom now seemed a much more sensible response to the state of things.

Mycroft got a text and sighed. Muttering to himself, "Oh, Sherlock, what now?" he rose from his desk and retrieved his overcoat and umbrella. Instantly, the umbrella felt a flush of excitement. A visit to Sherlock would never be a waste of time.

The sky had darkened and rain seemed imminent, but had not yet fallen. To the umbrella's surprise, the car did not turn toward Baker Street. Instead, he found himself carried into an unremarkable Chinese restaurant and propped beside Mycroft at a table. Sherlock was already there, studying the menu.

Much of the meal passed in a blur. Mycroft seemed to be scolding Sherlock about accosting an MP in an embarrassing fashion. Sherlock, in return, heaped his typical scorn upon his brother's appearance, occupation, and childhood interests. The umbrella didn't bother to follow the conversation; words were irrelevant compared to Sherlock's gestures and expressions. Sherlock's hands, his lips, his frenzied energy: these were the elements which built his fantasies. 

The umbrella was floating amidst a vision of Sherlock's plump lips around his handle when Sherlock's words gave him an abrupt jolt. "Oh, for God's sake, it's pouring buckets! I can't believe I let you convince me to meet you here, Mycroft. I'll never get home without getting soaked." When he pouted like a child, Sherlock's mouth was particularly delectable. . . the umbrella started drifting back into his imaginings.

He shook himself out of them permanently, though, when he heard words he'd longed for. "Fine, Sherlock. If it's so upsetting to you, take my umbrella." Mycroft punctuated his offer with an insincere smile as he added, "I need to have a word with the proprietor in any case."

Mycroft was offering him to Sherlock! Was this a trick? A test of his loyalty? No, it couldn't be; Sherlock was already reaching out for his handle, and the umbrella felt a shiver run through him as Sherlock's fingers finally, finally made contact. He floated in a daze as they reached the doorway. Now. The time was now. Oh God!

Sherlock opened the door to reveal sheets of rain, crackling thunder, gusting wind-- God, what glorious weather to be out in! The combination of the weather and Sherlock made the umbrella almost faint with anticipation. Any minute now Sherlock would open him and he would experience what he was made for.

Sherlock's large hands, nimble and strong as he had known they would be, gripped his shaft and _pushed_ his runner firmly. God, yes! No mild, soft caresses here. Sherlock used his shaft as it was meant to be used, and it felt glorious. The umbrella felt his stretchers extended as they had never been extended before, his canopy stretched to bursting over his ribs. He felt that canopy flutter as he realized they hadn't even left the shelter of the awning yet. How much more intense would this become?

Sherlock let out a sigh-- perhaps he even sensed the umbrella's arousal?-- and stepped out, into the pouring rain. All at once, the umbrella was enveloped in sensation. Driving drops stung his canopy, fierce wind lashed at his handle, and all around was the pressure and moisture and heat of a summer thunderstorm. It was almost too intense, punctuated by rolling thunder and sparks of lightning. The umbrella exhorted himself to relax into the feeling. He had dreamed about this for so long; he intended to enjoy every moment of the experience.

Sherlock's firm grip caressed his handle, curls just brushing the underside of his canopy in a teasing flicker. A strong gust of wind caused Sherlock to clutch yet more tightly, moving his hands up the shaft, bringing the canopy down to sit almost atop his head. The wind blew Sherlock's blue scarf up against the canopy, adding downy cashmere to the melange of sensual experience. The umbrella felt himself melting into sensation on all sides. A particularly hard fall of rain sent him almost over the edge, and he realized that his canopy was so swollen from excitement it was sending his runner sliding down the shaft.

Muttering about Mycroft and proper umbrella maintenance, Sherlock peered at the runner. Then-- oh, FUCK!-- he put his fingers in his mouth and _sucked_. The umbrella hardly dared to hope for what followed. Sherlock ran wet fingers around his runner, caressing all sides of his shaft, spreading lubrication and arousal with his touch. "That ought to keep the bloody thing open," said Sherlock.

The umbrella hardly noticed. Awash in feeling, he strove to keep himself just behind the precipice, to draw the experience out as long as possible. A bolt of lightning, a crash of thunder, Sherlock's unbelievably dexterous hands suddenly tightening on his shaft-- and he was done for. He felt his canopy pulse as his stretchers burst loose, releasing a stream of warm, liquid rain onto Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock cursed. The umbrella drooped, sated and spent.

___________________________

Thursday dawned warm and sunny, no sign of the previous day's rain clouding the sky. Inside 221b, Sherlock failed to notice. He was busy cataloguing the response of sock fibers to various poisons.

At half three, Mycroft appeared in the doorway. "Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock bellowed without looking up. 

"Sherlock, I won't keep you from your . . . _urgent_ experiments," Mycroft sneered. "I merely came to retrieve my umbrella. I may have need of it today."

"I don't know why you always carry it, brother, but as you can easily _deduce_ ," replied Sherlock, "It's shite. Look at it. Bloody thing collapsed on me in the storm yesterday. I was soaked before I could get a cab home."

The umbrella sat limply in the corner, ribs akimbo, canopy collapsed. It knew it would never shield Mycroft from the rain again. It never wanted to.

"Well, brother dear," sighed Mycroft, with that particular scorn he reserved for Sherlock, "You always did ruin my things."

**Author's Note:**

> If for some reason you want to talk to me even after reading this, visit me on [tumblr](http://cakepopsforeveryone.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I also want to give a shout out to [Besina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Besina), whose delightful [The Reason for Drycleaners](http://archiveofourown.org/works/357622) was definitely an influence on this work!


End file.
